


i keep you here, tucked to my ribs

by natehsewell



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: F/M, absolute nerds in love, hence the M rating, horny near the end but nothing explicit....
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:48:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28574769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natehsewell/pseuds/natehsewell
Summary: He takes a moment, inhaling, the rise of his chest a gentle press against her own back. “Naught is there that we need dread from Ulster's men. But speak truth, O Fedelm: how beholdest thou our host?”“Crimson-red from blood they are.” Winona repeats, keeping her note low, a subtle grin working its way onto her mouth. “I behold them bathed in red.”-Nate and Winona read to each other, and it goes the way you'd expect.
Relationships: Female Detective/Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell
Kudos: 13





	i keep you here, tucked to my ribs

**Author's Note:**

> answered for a prompt on tumblr awhile back! quotes are from The Táin.

"Tell, O Fedelm, prophet-maid, how beholdest thou our host?" 

"Crimson-red from blood they are; I behold them bathed in red.”

"That is no true augury," Nate’s voice lilts, lifts and slows with the rhythm of the words, his focus stilled on the sharp ink of the page. It’s for her benefit, she’s sure, the translation instead of the original work; it is a newer copy, too. Not faded to yellow with age like so many of his books are. Still, the spine is lined with careful use, worn enough to assume that he’s turned over this translation multiple times. “Verily, Conchobar with the Ulstermen is in his 'Pains' in Emain; thither fared my messengers, and brought me true tidings.”

He takes a moment, inhaling, the rise of his chest a gentle press against her own back. “Naught is there that we need dread from Ulster's men. But speak truth, O Fedelm: how beholdest thou our host?”

“Crimson-red from blood they are.” Winona repeats, keeping her note low, a subtle grin working its way onto her mouth. “I behold them bathed in red.” 

Nate reaches around her, his own elbow caught between her arm and side, to turn the page. It isn’t a story she would have chosen for herself, but there’s a lightness to him, a glint in his eyes, a care with which he holds her, and she refuses to break the moment to ask for something different.

At the end of it all, it doesn’t really matter, not when they’re close like this, and she can enjoy the slight pound of his heart, the hum of his voice in her ear. She’s been starved of closeness, touch, and he lets her take her fill, his knees framing her hips, his arm around the bend of her waist, his chin on her shoulder. Winona settles her own hand over his, lacing their fingers together--at least until he’ll have to turn the page again--and he squeezes her lightly.

“That is no true augury. Cuscraid Mend of Macha, Conchobar's son, is in Inis Cuscraid in his 'Pains.' Thither fared my messengers; naught need we fear from Ulster's men. But speak truth, O Fedelm.” Again, the chant repeats. _Bathed in red,_ she says, and again the lines demand the prophet-maid speak.

“Therewith she began to prophesy and to foretell the coming of Cuchulain to the men of Erin,” Nate prompts, “and she chanted a lay.”

“Fair, of deeds, the man I see; wounded sore is his fair skin--” Warm, soft lips trail a light path where the neck meets the shoulder, barely more than butterfly kisses, but sudden enough for her to lose her place. “Nate...”

“Yes, my love?”

“Cut it out.” She says, not an ounce of irritation in the words as she pushes back, closer to him, a silent encouragement of the gesture. “I’m trying to prophetize.”

“Of course,” he smiles, the motion curving against her skin, sending a shiver of delight down her spine. “By all means.”

She clears her throat, refocusing on the line she lost. “On his brow shines hero's light. Victory's seat is in his face.” 

Nate, again, his nose to the back of her neck, pressing into the jump of her curls, following the line of her head to the back of her ear, and Winona sighs, her eyes sliding shut in quiet relief, when he finally presses a kiss to her jaw, her shoulder. “Victory’s seat is in his face...” he continues, brushing kisses with every word.

“Seven gems of champions brave deck the centre of his--” 

The heavy weight of his hand slides from her stomach, curling under the hem of her camisole to find her skin, and she inhales shakily. “Thought this was _your_ idea of fun?” She chokes out, when his thumb arches against the underside of her breast, her back arching into the touch.

“Are you not having fun?” He chuckles, settling the book in her propped lap. She catches it with one hand, to keep from losing their place, and Nate uses his newfound freedom to trail his other hand up to her hair, pushing it aside to give himself more access to her. “Please, continue.” He murmurs, as if she could find her voice while he trails light, teasing touches across her skin.

She tries, truly. _Naked are the spears he bears,_ and Nate draws her free hand to his lips, kissing down the bend of her wrist, _and he hooks a red cloak round._ Her eyes slide shut, losing sight of her place, and Nate stops with her.

“Go on.” He says against her ear, voice still low, all the same arches and lulls and rhythms of the poem.

“But I know full well this host--” It isn’t her place, several lines skipped, but he says nothing, sliding his hands _lower and lower_ , “will be smitten red by him-- _oh._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @dumortainava.


End file.
